


Fill Your Heart

by Nina_Dances_In_Technicolor (orphan_account)



Series: The Way We Are [1]
Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: Community: cottoncandy_bingo, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-29
Updated: 2012-10-29
Packaged: 2017-11-17 06:45:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/548737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Nina_Dances_In_Technicolor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At some point, Bradam met.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fill Your Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Fill your heart with love today  
> Don't play the game of time  
> Things that happened in the past  
> Only happened in your mind, only in your mind  
> Oh, forget your mind and you'll be free, yeah
> 
> \--"[Fill Your Heart](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dIog1vxXN4U)," David Bowie
> 
>  
> 
> "Your greatest fear in life is not being misunderstood." -- Velvet Goldmine
> 
> * * *

On the way to a date with destiny, Brad has long believed, it's important to be dressed in style.

Of course, the first time he suggested the idea he was wearing ripped jeans and a stained Scary Movie T-shirt, but it's the thought that counts.

Right now he's seriously hoping this isn't destiny, because he's in a very ugly tank top and sweats, and his hair is sticking up in weird ways where it isn't plastered to his head by sweat.

Also, his car won't start, which wouldn't be such an issue if he hadn't told everyone he was tired and wanted to go home and didn't want to join the coffee klastch at Big Boy. So now he's sweaty and in ugly clothes and also has a dead battery in the middle of the dark parking lot behind the godawful job that pays his bills, and—

"Hello?"

Brad freezes. Then he scrabbles around on the passenger seat and finds the screwdriver that's replaced the window crank on the driver's side door. The locks are already down—he never even starts the car until he's locked in—and the windows are up, so at least the weirdo outside his car can't reach in and grab him. Brad stares out and tries to see the guy's face, but of course the only lamp in the parking lot is behind him, and all Brad can see is darkness.

"Are you okay?"

Brad takes the window down maybe a quarter of an inch. "I have a screwdriver, and I've never used it but I can shoot someone through the heart three times in thirty seconds so I have really good aim and I really would not fuck with me if I was you," he announces, all in one breath. The guy takes a couple of steps back from the window, hands raised.

"Whoa," he says, and then flexes his fingers, like he wants to be sure Brad knows he's empty-handed. "I have, uh. My car keys? I don't really believe in weapons, I just never see cars alone over here when I'm closing and I thought maybe you were hurt or something. I can go, seriously. I didn't mean to freak you out, I'm sorry. Uh— _are_ you okay? Because like, if you want me to go but you need help I can call the police or something, my mom sent me a cell card last month."

"I'm fine," Brad answers through the cracked window, and then, as the guy starts backing away, hands still raised—probably afraid Brad's going to give him a screwdriver to the head, or something—Brad opens his mouth and "my car won't start" spills out entirely without his permission. The guy stops.

"Do you want jumped?" he asks, and Brad tightens his grip on the screwdriver. "Because I've got cables in my car. It looks like shit, but the battery's new. I could probably get you a good charge pretty fast."

Brad lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Jump his battery, right. Except he's still paranoid and in clothes that aren't exactly hard to tear off. "I'm leaving my doors locked."

"Okay," the guy agrees. "Just start your car when I flick my lights. Uh—just don't drive off with my cables, okay? I wasn't kidding about the battery being new."

"I won't." Brad hunts by his foot for the hood button and pops it. The guy lifts the hood with all the expertise of someone who spends a lot of time underneath one and then wanders back across the parking lot. Brad panics for a second, and then a pair of headlights belonging to a truly grotesque green monstrosity turn on and it starts heading in his direction. The guy's honest, at least—it well and truly does look like shit.

He gets back out of the car, examines under Brad's hood with a flashlight and hooks up a set of jumper cables Brad hopes aren't as old as they look. Then he frowns at the battery.

"Uh—so usually you're supposed to be able to start the car right away, but your battery's got some serious corrosion going on," he calls. "I'm gonna leave this for like five minutes, okay?" He turns on the green monstrosity with a vague coughing noise that suggests a new battery isn't the only thing it needs, and in the glow from his flashlight as he rummages around his passenger seat Brad sees a flash of green. One of the guys who works at the Starbucks next door. Great. Brad sits back, screwdriver still in his hand, waiting to see which he's going to be handed: a joint or a religious tract about why it's very, very bad to let men stick dollar bills in his underwear for a living.

The guy has to flick his lights two or three times before Brad realises he's doing it, and the engine starts up with a reassuring rumble. Brad lays his head on the steering wheel and bursts into tears, so relieved he almost doesn't notice what's being slipped through the window to him. He reaches up and takes it automatically, then stares down at the hundred-dollar bill in his hands and almost yanks the door open to have a go at decking the guy. "What the fuck?"

"Somebody stuck it in my tip jar this afternoon and you seriously need a new battery way more than I need another pair of shoes," the guy answers. Then he actually jumps—Brad watches him do it. "I mean—oh, shit. I wasn't trying to—I know you guys don't, you know. Fuck. I'm sorry. You're too cute to be doing shit like that."

Brad blinks in surprise. It's not that he hasn't been called cute—and sometimes things far more explicit than cute—by his clientele. It's the way it jumped out of the guy's mouth, and he's still babbling apologies _and still doesn't seem aware he said it,_ like he's vocalizing the stream of consciousness that Brad so often wishes he wasn't still too afraid to scream out.

"Thank you."

The guy stops mid-stream, and Brad's pretty sure he's taking mental stock of his own. Brad takes the chance to wipe his eyes on the hem of his tank top.

"I appreciate it," he says, and pushes the hundred back out the window. "But I don't take money from people I don't know."

He waits for the guy to point out that taking money from people he doesn't know is the very definition of what he does for a living. Instead the guy bites his lip and looks down at the bill Brad pushed back out to him.

"Then can I take you for a coffee or something? Because seriously, if you're crying over a car battery you really don't need to be trying to drive Sunset at two-thirty in the morning." The guy fumbles in his wallet, and after a couple of seconds he holds a piece of hard plastic against the window. Brad has to restrain a full-onset attack of hysterical laughter when he realises it's the guy's driver's license, which he can't read in the dark of the car and wouldn't tell him if the guy's wanted four states away on a count of rape and murder anyway. It's so genuinely flaky he can't help finding it kind of charming, even though that's probably a great way to get himself in trouble in this part of WeHo.

"Are you a serial killer or just a seriously weird guy who doesn't see a problem with picking up on a stripper in the middle of a club parking lot right after last call?" Brad asks, and the guy rubs the back of his neck—embarrassed, if Brad's high school psych class can be believed.

"I wasn't trying to pick up on you," he answers, and he sounds sheepish enough Brad actually believes him. "I mean, unless you want to be picked up on. I'm flexible. But I'm not trying to be one of those creepy assholes who hang out by the back door and hand you a rubber with a fifty wrapped around it, even though that totally probably makes me sound like I am. We get them over there, too." He nods vaguely in the direction of the Starbucks. "I don't even let Stace and Lydia go outside alone anymore. I read this thing online about a guy who was hanging out in a Dumpster enclosure in Nevada and had nightmares for a week. That shit isn't okay."

Brad feels the corners of his mouth twitch. It's been a long time since anybody surprised him into a smile that way, but there's something about the way the guy talks that reaches down to a part of Brad he's missed since most of his high school friends found Jesus or the military, when he set out on his own and found what he wanted lacking. It's like all of Hollywood was supposed to be Brad's very own personal piece of strawberry shortcake, and turned out to be that shitty Little Debbie imitation thing, and hidden in the middle is this guy who's one hundred percent real topping and plenty of whipped cream and Brad should really stop that train of thought before it goes to places that will keep him awake all night.

"I'm in the most awful fucking clothes you've ever laid eyes on," he says, and he's kind of interested to know how the guy's going to answer, because after the last couple of rambles he's pretty sure some slick line about taking them off isn't what's coming. What he gets doesn't disappoint: a chuckle, and an awkward shift inside the ugly Starbucks shirt, and then he's staring at an olive-green T-shirt with a rip in the hem and the legend _God put me on earth to do a certain number of things. Right now, I am so far behind I will never die_ emblazoned across it in a truly unfortunate shade of purple. The guy's smile is brilliant even in the almost complete dark. 

"So we can look fucking awful together, perfect!" he enthuses. "Style always wins out in the end."

And then Brad is _laughing_ , laughing like he hasn't since he was a kid, tears still drying on his cheeks and his shoulders shaking and his lungs starting to hurt from the lack of meaningful air, and he doesn't remember unlocking the car but suddenly he's standing in front of the guy who turns out to be _huge_ , actually, Brad barely makes the guy's shoulder, and he leans his forehead against it and keeps laughing, not protesting when a hand comes to rest lightly on his waist. He has this feeling, and Brad has always believed strongly in his own intuition even when everything else was falling down around his ears, that the hand is safe—in a club, or a tight booth at a restaurant, that hand might touch other places, but right here, right now, its owner is aware that Brad wouldn't be comfortable with anything more, and respects that.

Finally he catches his breath enough to wheeze out some words. "I'm sorry, you just— _style always wins_ , that was totally brilliant."

"It's from a movie."

Brad restrains himself from saying _I want to see it with you_ , but the thought doesn't scare him the way it would have two hours ago, the way having this conversation in this parking lot probably should. Instead he sits on the hood of his newly-started car, not sure his legs will hold him up. "I'm Brad."

The guy turns toward him. For the first time Brad actually sees the parking lot light fall across his face—broad and freckled, blue eyes above full lips and all topped off with a thick spill of unruly hair that practically begs for a set of fingers waiting to pet—and bites very hard on his tongue to keep his mouth from falling open.

"I'm Adam."


End file.
